C l o c k w o r k
by Her.Vanilla.Majesty
Summary: They are lovers in one life, heroes in another. They are parallel images, mirrors of wisdom and courage depicting a thousand stories of love pursued in vain and friendships blossoming in between the erratic flow of time. The princess and the hero are one.


**_From the messy desk of HVM,_**

Hello, good people of fanfiction! I have come bearing a quickie oneshot, so give it a read, kay?

This piece spans across timelines of several _Zelda_ games, so I have taken the liberty of naming them with their initials-which I know you'll all figure out being the smart little gamers you are.

On a sidenote, anyone played _Skyward Sword_ yet? If not, go get yourself the game because it. is. AMAZING.

:)

~Enjoy.

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><p><strong><span>C l o c k w o r k<span>**

**i.**

_MM_

Dirt gathers and clings to the hem of her skirt. Silk bunches together, iron bands of need and desire constricting her chest painfully when she takes her last step.

Through falling leaves and fluttering cherry petals, she catches a last glimpse.

The coldness of winter is lost to them both.

Blue eyes peer through flashes of wayward gold and he flutters to the valleys of green like a restless butterfly.

Hooves stamp away on cement roads, heading for earthen soil and blades of grass.

She wonders if she will ever see him again.

**ii.**

_OOT_

Clouds frame the sunset, layering the sky in shades of burning orange and lavender.

She plucks out an imperfect lullaby on a tight string and sings tunelessly, without purpose.

Her eyes fall to the harsh slants of metal and the calluses embedded on his hands.

The red curls seeping from a neglected scar blossom on his chest and spread against green fabric, and through the torrent of rain, she can hear her heartbeat slowing to match his.

The cloth wrapped around her face feels damp as she dresses his wounds in the cover of the night, listening for the hitch in his breathing, watching his chest rise and fall erratically.

She tells him her secret, tells him how sorely her heart aches for both their pain, and it falls on deaf ears.

**iii.**

_WW_

She hadn't expected to see him again.

But she did.

The idiots were off rambling again, protesting to her about taking a break and drinking up at the bar—just for the night, before setting sail.

Her back leaned against the crates and her head craned back to the ceiling, catching the faintest blur of gold and blue.

She smiled and sent him a wink.

She'd buy him some time. Just a little.

**iv.**

_TP_

She wants to run to him, wrap her arms around him, assure herself that he's really there—alive and breathing and just as beautiful as she has always imagined him to be in her mind's eye.

But his eyes are distant and irrevocably drawn to the castle, watching in stony silence as it collapses on itself, shuddering to heap of rubble and smoke.

The tyrant lives and the battle rages on.

**v.**

_MM_

They do not understand what is happening to her.

They fret and fuss over her loss of appetite, the sullen drawl in her voice, and the muffled sobs they pretend not to hear through her bedroom door at night.

They worry about her tendency to drown herself in work, busy herself with pointless amendments and unnecessary alliances instead of skipping through the gardens—like she used to in her happier days.

They fear that the blue-eyed boy is breaking her heart and doesn't even know it.

**vi.**

_TP_

He's losing everything all over again.

The afternoon is blustery and the desert winds are hot as they slap across miles of golden-brown dunes, the fading light casting a rosy flush on their scarred arms and grimy faces.

Dirt cakes her nails and her hair is in disarray, spilling over her bronze spaulders and tangling themselves loosely down her back. She doesn't fret over her appearance yet because he barely looks at her—and she is well aware why.

His friend, companion, comrade is leaving—back to that goddess-forsaken and sunless world her kind was banished off to. And he cannot stop her.

He thinks he's losing everything again, everything but her—the one remaining constant in the thousand past lives he's lived—but today, he couldn't care less.

She'll stay though. She'll stay for him.

In this life and the next.

**vii.**

_TP_

"What's this?"

She stared bewilderedly at the bundle of lavender flowers hastily placed in her hands.

The royal messenger cast them a disdainful look, taking in the bouquet with narrowed eyes and wiping his gloved hands on his pristine trousers. "Ordon orchids, your Grace."

The queen's eyes widened, conveying confusion, and the messenger raised a brow when she cradled them even closer instead of casting them away, like he had formerly expected.

Contrary to popular belief, the queen was not overly fond of flowers. She rarely ever walked into the gardens unless when meeting a foreign ambassador or cutting through a shorter route to other sections of the palace.

"They're quite common, actually. We have a large bed of them out in the courtyard," he clarified.

"Is that so?" she mumbled dazedly, brushing a finger on the petals with a small smile.

"Yes."

The stems were still covered in soil and the petals themselves were slightly wrinkled and dented, color flushing out as if it had bled—a stark contrast to the flawlessness of its brethren, here in the castle, possessed.

"Who sent them, James?" The queen's voice was inexorably soft and just a touch wistful.

"A young man sent them by just now. Apparently, he and the Captain of the Guards were quite familiar, so of course I had to deliver them to you, despite your busy schedule. Auru nearly wrung my neck when I told the boy that there was no use sending you flowers when we have nearly thousands here in—"

"What was his name?"

"Ah," the messenger thought over it, "I believe it was Rinku, or something like that. Didn't quite catch it. He spoke awfully soft."

The queen smiled, her lips curling as her visage lit up brilliantly. Her eyes sparkled with mirth, and the messenger found himself at a startling loss of words when she laughed.

"Arrange an escort, James, if you will. I believe a personal thanks to _Rinku_ is in order."

**viii**

_SS_

The post-race ritual.

To say that Zelda was nervous would perhaps be the biggest understatement in all of Skyloft.

She was terrified—excited—and she felt horrible—happy, actually, so _so_ happy.

But in that split-second, when his hands finally claimed victory, the pounding of her heart beat to a solid pace that deafened all the doubts in her head. She ran off the edge of the port just as he was swooping down, a blur of red and gold, and landed in his arms, laughing and smiling with him.

The people cheered, Groose sulked back to the Academy, and she could see her father waving them off to the Statue of the Goddess with a knowing look.

And, with just the snap of a finger it seemed, the ease flew from her body, leaving only uncertainty and foreboding sensations in its wake.

She busied herself with the placement of the bird statue, played her song slow and sweet, brushed fingers through her hair when his gaze wandered back and forth.

And now…now the ritual would be finished, knighthood sealed with a prayer and a kiss to the Goddess' chosen.

But then his eyes came into view, blue like the starless evening nights, and her confidence faltered as she realized that she wasn't ready.

Far from it in fact.

So she pushed him (off the Statue)—a nervous tendency she developed whenever she grew uncomfortable around him. Whenever their arms brushed and he smiled at her, not noticing the flush of her cheeks, she'd shove him away playfully with a laugh. Whenever she sang for him under the shade of their favorite tree and he'd compliment her sweetly, she'd wave him off and distance herself.

She consoled herself with the belief that she'd be ready soon, just not now. And he'd be there when that time came…he was always there for her.

She believed that nothing could separate them, not in this world they lived in.

But the world below was far from complying so easily to that.

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><p>Review! :)<p>

-HVM


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